Heaven Can Wait
by MJlegacy14
Summary: June 25th 2009. How many of us wish we could have saved him on that fateful day? How many hours, days, years, have we spent crying over a man who would never know our faces. A man who would never entertain the world again. One fan. One wish. One extraordinary opportunity "Do you believe in miracles?", he asked. "I believe in you". I answered, giving him a sad, half smile.


I was 12 years old when Michael Jackson died. 12 years. 7 months and 19 days. That's 151 months. 659 weeks. 4,614 days. 110,736 hours. 6,644, 160 minutes. 398,649,600 seconds.

I remember where I was. And every anguished, salty tear that dripped down my face in the months after.

From the moment, I was three, the man had me entranced. His music. His dance. His heart. He would later replace the man I had so lovingly called "father" before he walked out on my younger sister and I. Yes, in a chapter of my mind, Michael Jackson was the father I never had. The best friend I always wanted. And the lover I always dreamed of.

Give it time, they said.

Give it time is what people said as I continued the years without him. As if time is some magic elixir that will heal the pain of losing one so dearly loved. How can time take away the pain of an unspoken goodbye?

How can time fill the vast and empty place this is my heart as I watched the world keep turning without him?

Time can't even give me the answer to the simple question of "why"?. No. Time does not heal. Time is merely a teacher. A teacher that is forcing me to make room for the pain, the grief, and the neverending heartbreak.

And I am its unwilling teacher.

My mother could not understand why around the months of June and August, I tended to recede into my shell of depression even deeper. How could she understand that June reminded of the month he was taken from this world forever and August reminded me of the day he would never have again.

This August birthday, however, six years later, I vowed to be different.

Tomorrow would be different. It had to be. I would smile, and it would be believable. My smile would say "I'm happy." "Yes, I feel much better." I would no longer be the sad little girl who lost her idol. I would start fresh; be Jesse James, the girl named after the outlaw. It's the only way I'll make it through.

I glanced up at the smiling, alabaster face of my idol that adorned my walls. In 30 minutes, it would be his birthday. He would have been 57. A single tear streaks down the right side of my face as if out some corny, romance movie.

I sighed heavily. So, as a Michael Jackson fan, how do I heal? Is there ever a possibility of any healing? Ever? When everyday, something happens that disturbs the festering wound in my heart when it's just barely begun to scab over? Just when I thought there was no more to be said. No more lies to be told. How am I supposed to when the anniversary of death and birthday roll through like the tides and I am constantly reeling from another reminder.

Wiping the tears off my face, I clear the homework my professor had assigned to me off my bed.

I hadn't even looked at it.

Life was a blur these days. My mother stressed over bills and my sixteen year old sister's expensive private school bills. My room, once so tidily kept and organized had taken a turn for the worst. I simply didn't have time for anything anymore.

10 minutes.

Actually, I no longer cared. The one thing that looked remotely organized was the assortment of Michael Jackson cds and collectables I kept on a bookshelf in the corner of my room.

Why would I care? How am I supposed to deal with the skeptics, haters, and relatives with their vile comments and suggestions of a relative because they think I'm unbalanced and insane? How was I supposed to continue without Michael's light? Any light? How did I dare go another day without him?

" _There are ways to get there...if you care enough for the living."_

Oh Michael.

A loud bang woke me out of my mental musing; my sister barged into my room, the door slamming into the wall.

"Did you take my-" She started.

"No." I sighed, interrupting her. "I don't know what it is, but I didn't take it."

Charlie narrowed her eyes suspiciously at me. "My basketball was on the floor by my bed when I left for school. And now it's gone. Somebody took that shit."

I pinched the bridge of my nose between my hand. "You know I don't play basketball anymore. Why the hell would I take your ball?"

She put her hand on her hip defiantly. "You _used_ to love basketball, actually. Isaiah called, by the way."

"Key word. 'Used to'. And I don't want to talk to get out!" I said calmly, with an underlying threatening tone.

Charlie rolled her eyes heavily, before exiting my room and slamming the door very loudly. "Bitch." I heard her mutter through the door.

Two minutes.

There are different levels of fans.There are those who saw him as an entertainer, a musician, an icon. These are the ones who swoon over his image and the stage persona. There are those screaming fans who see him as a sex symbol. There are those who see the legacy, who "get" who Michael was and who wish to carry on his work in the wake of his passing.

There are those who understand what he represented and are his advocates.

And there are others who see beyond the immediate future all the way to the infinity loop. All backgrounds, all levels of intelligence, all races, ages and abilities.

What we have in common is one skinny little Moonwalker who showed us who and how to be.

I got up to turn off the light having worn myself out, and unwittingly glancing into my dresser mirror. I had definitely looked better. My eyes were bloodshot red. In spite of this, I smile. Today would be different. It had to be.

 _Happy Birthday, Michael Joe Jackson._

I sleep in later than I really wanted to. It's about 9:00 when I wake up. I like to get up early and watch the sun rise. It just reminds that if the sun manages to come up everyday , I can go on.

However, something _is_ different.

I'm different.

A cloud of melancholy had been raining on me for six years. I didn't feel it now. It's like the wound in my heart was gone-no.

Like it had never been there in the first place.

I glance around my room and immediately noticed how clean and pristine it looked. My mother must have come in while I was sleep and cleaned up. It puzzled me a bit because I was an extremely light sleeper.

The second thing that bothered me were the basketball trophies that adorned my dresser. My mother must have pulled those out of storage or something because I have not played basketball in years.

"Moooooooom!" I screeched angrily, throwing my blanket aside and standing up.

"I'm in the kitchen." She called back, oblivious of my angry tone.

When I find her, I notice that she's dyed her hair. Yesterday, she had looked so much older with the salt and pepper hair she had just so recently sported. Most of it due to me and my...inefficiency.

"Why did you clean my room? I liked it the way it was?"

She looks up from the eggs she's cooking and her eyebrows furrow in confusing. "What are you talking about, Jesse? I didn't touch anything."

I sit down at the old, used and abused kitchen table. "Mom, yesterday, my room was a mess. Today, it's clean, I didn't do it. And I definitely didn't put those trophies back in there, sooo?"

My mother smiled. "I get it. You're joking. You almost had me for a second."

"You're so weird." Charley laughed, walking into to the kitchen and grabbing a plate of eggs from Mom. She sat down next to me and forked a mouthful of eggs into her mouth. "Isaiah came over yesterday while you were at school."

I raised an eyebrow. "Ok?"

"Text him." She said it that "duh" tone.

"Why would I text Isaiah?" I snorted. My mother set a plate of pancakes and eggs in front of me.

Since when did she have time to cook anymore?

Charley waggled a finger at me. "You really are acting weird today, you know that? Isaiah is your BOYFRIEND!"

It took a moment for that to register, but when it finally did, I vomited a little in my mouth. It's not that Isaiah Lee Locke wasn't attractive. He was.

He had hazel eyes. Nice milk chocolate skin. When we were in high school, he was the star basketball player. Got a scholarship to UCLA and everything. All that stuff.

We "went out" in 7th grade, but he started calling me a "crazy bitch" after I broke up with him when Michael died.

I swore to never speak to him again. And I haven't. He's been after me for years.

I held up a questioning finger. "Ok. I'll bite. How long have we been dating, since, you know...he's my boyfriend and all?"

Charley just shook her head and stood up, placing her plate in the sink, and kissing my mother on the cheek,before grabbing her backpack and racing out the front door. "Bye, Mom."

The phone in our kitchen rang shrilly and my mother wiped her hands on the kitchen towels, before picking it up. "Hello? Yeah. She's right here. Ok." She gave me a knowing wink before handing me the phone.

I placed my ear to the phone and heard a voice I thought I would never hear again. "Jess."

"What the hell do you want, Locke?"

I heard him chuckle. "You're mad now. But, wait until you hear what I have to say."

"I don't have time for your games." I hissed.

"I have two tickets."

"Tickets for what?" I huffed, slightly exasperated.

"Michael Jackson concert." He whispered in that silky smooth voice of his.

I hung up on him. Tossing the phone on the counter, I pointed an accusing finger at my mother. I don't know what game you all think you're playing, but I refuse to play a part in it!"

I immediately felt sorry afterwards, when I saw the shocked expression on my mother's face.

"Jesse, I don't what's gotten into your ass, but you're not told old to get a beatdown." She said, sternly. "Now, what are you talking about?"

"You guys are doing this on purpose." I accused, struggling to maintain my composure.

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "Doing what?"

"It's August 29th." I say, quietly.

My mother walks over and places a hand on my forehead. "Are you feeling ok? We're barely about to hit July."

My heart stopped beating for a few seconds. I stare at my mother for what seems like eternity. I glance to the calendar she keeps on the wall over the sink and then back to her. Little "x's" mark each day that passed.

June 23...24…

I swallow hard. "Mom? What year is it?"

"What is wrong with you, Jesse? It's 2009."

Impossible.

If...and I do mean, if, I had somehow managed to travel back in time, I would be a 12 year old little girl. Not this fully blossomed, damn-near-nineteen year old that I was.

I place a hand over my mouth, trying to piece together all of this. I think for a long moment, casually approaching the question I knew I had to ask.

"Those...tickets Isaiah were talking about. What Michael Jackson concert was he talking about? Michael Jackson One? Tribute Concert? Hm?" I try to say it as calmly as possible, but the hope is slowly starting to seep out.

"Um...This Is The End or something like that? You should know! You were the one screaming about it."

I glance at the wall clock. There was still time. There had to be.

Time stops. In that singular moment in time, I knew. I knew. I knew. I let out a loud yelp, that sounds more animal than human, and throw myself at the house phone. My phone was in my room somewhere, and I didn't have the patience to look for it.

I type in three singular digits and almost die in annoyance at the sound of the phone ringing. I would do the thing that should have been done while that idiot doctor tried to hide the medicine he illegally administered to my Michael while he lay dying.

I called 911.

"911. What's your emergency?"

"I need an ambulance." I practically screamed into the phone. I ignore my mother's attempts to get my attention.

"Are you hurt, ma'am?" The female voice on the other end asks.

"No. I'm fine, but please, get there as soon as possible."

"There? Is it not the address you're located at?"

I take a slow, methodical breath. The address that had been forever seared into my brain erupts from my lips.

"100 N. Carolwood Drive. Los Angeles."

So how do I heal?

I stop the wound from every being inflicted.

a


End file.
